


Spookies & Cream

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Fluff, Haunted Ice Cream Shop AU, Haunting, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Summer, meet cute, puns, tiny bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: In which Andrew works at a haunted ice-cream shop and Neil accidentally seduces him with puns.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 65
Kudos: 805





	Spookies & Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lolainslackss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/gifts).



> My mind just kinda went "haunted ice-cream shop AU" at me out of nowhere and I desperately needed a distraction from the last work week (month) of hell so! Idk! This happened. The haunting is very wishy washy handwavey, I apologise. There is some implied heavy stuff but nothing explicit, and a lil bit of smut towards the end.
> 
> My girl Rebecca made a lovely playlist for this which you can find on Spotify [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/75IrBpZkljcAqTGgutMFGZ?si=ZaoRq8dVQC-FAkmPEwOfLQ)

There is a darkness in the corner of Afterspoon’s kitchen.

It has been there for a while now, coating the wall like cobwebs, lurking menacingly. Andrew walks past it every day on his way to the store room. He makes a point of ignoring it, and so far it has ignored him in turn.

It’s an arrangement that works for both of them.

A sticky pool of sunlight seeps across the black and white tiled floor like melted ice-cream as Andrew goes through the motions of opening up. It avoids the corner but has no qualms about Andrew’s feet, rolling and stretching and exposing its golden belly like a lazy cat. Andrew itches to scratch at the remains of his sunburn and busies his hands with folding mint chocolate chips into the newest batch of ice-cream instead, until his boss breezes in with an armful of fresh berries from the market.

“Smells like it’s gonna be a hot day,” she greets him, dumping her haul on the counter. Several overzealous strawberries bounce out of the basket and roll into the sink. “A perfect day for ice-cream.”

“Every day is a perfect day for ice-cream,” Andrew duly recites their mantra.

Joy Klose, daughter of an American soldier and a German housewife with a knack for sweet things, opened the ice-cream shop at around the same time the last of her children moved out of home. Her eccentric creations have gained somewhat of a cult status in the neighbourhood over the years, leading to a steady trickle of business throughout the spring and summer months and sometimes well into autumn. When Andrew came to visit Nicky and his newly baked fiancé in Germany last year, fresh out of college and fresh out of ideas for what to do with his life, she saw a kindred spirit in him and promptly hired him on.

“Right,” she says, shimmying into her apron and rubbing her hands. “What shall we make today? Neil’s coming by later tonight and I want the place in tip top shape.”

“Neil?” Andrew asks, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Joy is a chatterbox on a hair trigger and knows everyone in a three-mile radius. Even the local wannabe punk kids grudgingly defer to her. Whoever this Neil is, Andrew probably doesn’t want to know.

“Why, the new hire of course! I told you,” Joy says.

“You did not,” Andrew says, before his brain catches up. “New what?”

“He’ll be helping you out this summer,” Joy hums, rinsing the blueberries. “I won’t be around as much what with the wedding preparations, and someone needs to keep an eye on your terrible customer service.”

“I will not play circus clown for some fresh-faced high-school kid with a summer job,” Andrew grumbles, wrangling with a giant tub of mascarpone.

“He’s your age, I think. And he’s English! I have a feeling you’ll get along just fine.”

“I don’t need help,” Andrew huffs. “I have Renee.”

“She’s only here about once a week,” Joy points out. “What do you think—strawberry and balsamic?”

“Ew,” Andrew says, crinkling his nose slightly. “Why ruin a perfectly good batch of strawberries?”

“You said that about the lemon and basil sorbet, and look how well that’s been selling.”

“Germans have no taste.”

Joy laughs and swats at him with a tea towel that Andrew easily dodges. They settle into a familiar rhythm, carving out pockets of space for each other in the cramped room. Andrew prepares a fresh batch of the Vietnamese coffee ice-cream that sells like crazy on hot days and Joy whips up a fragrant pistachio and rose concoction, the rose water lingering cloyingly in Andrew’s nostrils even after it’s gone into the freezer.

Around mid-day, Joy leaves to run some errands and Andrew props open the door to the café, taking up post behind the gleaming counter. The tubs of ice-cream lined up inside look like a stained glass window made up of rich, jewelled tones. He drops more cones onto the waiting stacks, refills the dish with the little plastic spoons and writes signs for the new flavours they’ve got lined up for the day, and soon the first people start coming in for their daily fix.

As predicted, the day turns out to be a busy one. By mid-afternoon Andrew’s right arm is starting to ache from the constant strain of digging into the frozen tubs and his face is numb from the effort of—not smiling, really, but trying to maintain what Joy calls “a slightly more polite version of your resting bitch face”. As the day wears on and grows threadbare towards evening, he can feel the more and more insistent tugs on his awareness of the things that occupy the shop after sundown. As far as Andrew knows they’ve been there for as long as he has, probably longer, though it took them a while to come out of hiding after he first arrived. Some of them are now so familiar Andrew has started to call them distinct names in his head, though if he tries to focus too hard on what they look like, they start to blur and lose shape, blending together into a dark mass of limbs and eyes.

The boldest of them—a small flock of smudgy, spiky, vaguely bird-like things—like to perch on the espresso machine and watch him work. Some hang from the ceiling like bats or ink splotches, napping the day away. Others skitter underneath the cupboards or hulk in the back of drawers, refusing to be coaxed out.

Every once in a while a piece of silverware goes missing. Andrew once found a stash of lost bottle caps, rubber bands, broken wafers, coins and espresso spoons under one of the massive freezers, and something keeps leaving black cat hair-like wisps of shadow on the red silk lining of his leather jacket, which feels warm whenever he puts it back on after closing up the shop at night, even when the sun has long since skulked out of the back room.

He brushes away the tickling sensation at his elbow and wiggles a scoop of cherry and banana free from the almost-empty tub. There’s no point saving the measly leftovers so he dumps them on top, stretching to hand the cone over to the kid standing on his tippy toes in front of the counter and pretending not to see the boy’s eyes go huge and round. He’s not in the habit of handing out freebies to raggedy children carefully counting out every last bit of change in their sticky palms; it’s just common sense, is all. The rush of the day is done, there’s only the occasional post-dinner wanderers and the late-night revellers left now, and they aren’t usually picky.

Joy comes in just as the kid is leaving, breezing in with a rabbity looking guy in tow.

“Andrew! This is Neil,” she exclaims, ushering him forward. “Neil, Andrew. He’ll show you the ropes.”

Andrew meticulously counts change into the till and slams it shut. The new guy—Neil—doesn’t look like much in his faded jeans and boring, stripey t-shirt, but there’s something about his blue raspberry eyes that catches Andrew’s attention.

“Hi,” Neil says meekly, hands in his pockets. “I’m Neil.”

His German is impeccable, as far as Andrew can tell. He and Joy chat a bit while Joy shows him around and Andrew furiously cleans the espresso machine, trying not to listen.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted,” Joy says once they’ve completed their little tour. “Don’t be put off by Andrew’s grouchy attitude and make him show you how to work the register. Andrew, be good.”

With that she’s off again, swinging back on her bike and calling out a greeting to someone in the street. It’s Thursday, so she’s got her book club for refugee children and her salsa class. Andrew wishes he didn’t know these things, but Joy’s babbling is hard to tune out and his brain is like a dry sponge.

“How long have you been working here?” Neil asks, in German, peering at the ice-cream and trying to read the signs upside-down.

“Since last summer,” Andrew says in English. He understands German better than he speaks it, and he doesn’t see why he should make the effort if it’s neither of their native language in the first place.

“Oh,” Neil says. Then, switching to English: “Well, I guess we’re… partners in cream now.”

He glances over his shoulder, his mouth lifting in a tentative grin that disappears in the face of Andrew’s unimpressed look.

A couple tumbles through the door arm in arm and Andrew wipes his hands and shoos Neil away from the counter to serve them. Two scoops of Vietnamese coffee and cinnamon popcorn later, Andrew finds himself back under the unnerving scrutiny of those eyes as he digs an obscene amount of change out of the till and hands it over.

“What?” Andrew says once they’re alone in the shop again, the last dregs of sunlight sloshing around on the floor by the window.

“Nothing,” Neil says. “Just trying to learn.”

“Can you do it less obnoxiously,” Andrew grits out.

“I… can try?” Neil says, amused.

Andrew sighs and grabs a rag and the spray bottle with Joy’s homemade cleaning solution.

“Go wipe down the tables outside,” he tells him, shoving both in his hands.

“I see what Joy meant about your attitude,” Neil remarks on his way out the door. Andrew gives him the finger, but Neil has already turned around.

-

The darkness in the corner has grown bigger.

Andrew squints sideways at it while he peels the wrapper from a block of marzipan. It’s a humid day, sweat making his clothes stick to him even though it’s barely nine in the morning. He’s been up since five thanks to dreams studded with violence like knucklebones sticking out of grave dirt and his ears have been ringing ever since he woke up.

“Hey,” Renee says where she’s measuring out charcoal for their honey and black cumin ice-cream. “You okay?”

“Tired,” Andrew says. He looks at the knife in his hand and doesn’t remember picking it up. He puts it down and starts breaking the marzipan into chunks with his fingers instead, digging his thumbs into it until all he can smell is sweet almonds instead of rot.

There is nothing in the corner.

He is having a bad day.

Only one of these statements is true.

“So have you decided?” Renee asks, stirring the honey. Joy gets it from one of her seven brothers, all of whom are big, beardy, blond men with outdoorsy hobbies like beekeeping and mountaineering and herding goats. “About the new guy.”

“He has yet to survive his first full day,” Andrew points out.

“Mm,” Renee says. “Let me know.”

They have a routine. In the beginning they circled each other like wary cats, but by now Andrew can wordlessly hold out his hand and know she will put the right tool in it. Renee does not try to touch him or engage him in meaningless platitudes, and she never once mentions that Andrew sometimes disappears into the store room for longer than strictly necessary to fetch something. Some days one of them will look at a knife and the other will know to collect all of the ones in the kitchen and dump them in a drawer on their side of the work station. Some days Andrew sits out back after closing up with the last of the halva ice-cream and eat himself sick while Renee stands watch.

They’re not friends. Andrew doesn’t have friends.

Only one of these statements is true.

Shortly after noon, Renee goes into Joy’s office for her prayers. There are no customers in the shop and Andrew peers into the kitchen from the doorway. The shades are drawn to keep out the heat, thin slats of light rippling across the tiles. Something writhes in the corner and then the bell above the door chimes and Andrew goes back, closing the door behind him.

One of the wannabe punks stands in front of the counter, rocking on her feet and chewing on her lip ring. She’s wearing fishnets and black nail polish and a ripped up denim jacket that covers her arms despite the weather. One of the Things flutters down to perch on her shoulder, swaying gently back and forth with beady black eyes.

There is nothing Andrew can say to her to make it better, whatever it is.

“Don’t you ever just have, like, regular chocolate,” she says over a vinyl scratch in her voice.

“No,” Andrew says. Renee cleared all the knives away in the kitchen earlier, but there is plenty of violence to be done without them. He briefly digs his fingers into his forearms, pinching hard through his sleeves, before snatching up a cone with sprinkles around the rim.

“Hey, I didn’t-” she says, then falls silent. Andrew gives her a big scoop of the birthday cake ice-cream (vanilla with cookie dough and more sprinkles) and deliberately miscounts the change.

“It’s not my birthday,” she says, scrounging for a bit of spare rebellion and coming up short.

“I don’t care,” Andrew says and turns away to clean the steamer on the espresso machine even though it’s all sparkling clean.

The bell chimes again after a moment and Andrew watches her leave through the window, the dark shape on her shoulder bobbing with every step.

-

“So, which one’s your favourite?” Neil asks, on a Saturday evening as they’re getting ready to close up. The crowds have been rolling in like storm clouds all day and the shop is sticky-warm and stifling, most of the tubs sitting empty after a hen party cleaned them out of their last supply. He tips his cup against his lips and slurps noisily at the last slimy dregs of his cucumber, mint and dill sorbet and Andrew holds his shoulders down steady to suppress a shudder.

“Not that disgusting concoction,” he says, gesturing at Neil’s sorbet.

“No?” Neil says and shrugs. “I’ve had worse. It’s refreshing, at least. So?”

“Guess,” Andrew says, despite himself. It’s getting dark outside and the shop is a glowing bulb in a row of deadened windows. The street lamp opposite has been patchy for weeks. As Andrew peers through the window at the street, one of the neon signs on the kebab place further down pops out. Must be faulty wiring down that end.

“Hmm,” Neil says, hauling out the last empty tub and hoisting it up against his hip. His shirt scrunches up around the metal, revealing the tiniest almond sliver of smooth brown skin, and Andrew’s mouth waters without his permission. “The black one?”

“Wrong,” Andrew says.

“Guess it wasn’t mint to be,” Neil grins.

“I will stab you,” Andrew warns, and Neil clutches his chest in mock sorrow.

“You don’t like my legendairy puns? Also, with what—that wafer you just stole when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

Andrew crams the wafer in his mouth whole.

“What wafer? You can’t prove anything.”

“Maybe so. I know the truth, though,” Neil sniffs. “A cold comfort, at least.”

Andrew hauls the unfinished tub of coconut curry ice-cream out—an experiment, not as successful as some of the last ones, to exactly nobody’s surprise—and balances it on one shoulder, then stacks the cucumber one on his other side before carrying both into the kitchen. He can feel Neil’s eyes following him like a shadow.

“How could you dessert me?” Neil calls after him, amusement laced through his voice like swirls of amarena cherry. He comes in with his one empty tub, still balanced against his hip, still disturbing the fabric of his shirt in agonisingly tantalising ways. “Come on, tell me. I’m on the edge of my sweet.”

“Will you stop making puns if I do?” Andrew bargains, resigned. He scrapes the leftovers into the bin and looks up when there’s no sassy answer coming from Neil. “Is that a yes?”

For a split second, Andrew thinks Neil is staring at the darkness in the corner. Then Neil blinks and drops the tub by the sink with a noisy clatter, smoothing his shirt down. Andrew imagines the sensation of his cold hand on warm skin and shivers.

“Nut on your life,” he says over his shoulder, easy and golden like the last drops of sunset.

Andrew wants to lap him up and dye his tongue blue on his juices, but that is beside the point.

_Beside the pint_ , Neil’s cheeky voice supplies in his head.

“Oh, fudge off,” Andrew mutters, accidentally sticking the spoon with the last of the cucumber sorbet in his mouth and sucking it clean just for one remote taste of Neil’s mouth.

-

“Mozart’s Balls?” Neil says, incredulously. “Really? That’s what they’re called?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No? I don’t really eat sweets and I don’t like marzipan.”

“Try,” Andrew says, dipping a clean spoon into the new batch of ice-cream and breaking through the chocolate drizzle coat on top. It’s marzipan, pistachio and praline, folded roughly into each other like a superior version of Neapolitan ice-cream, with a smooth boozy undertone.

“This is your favourite, isn’t it?” Neil says, grimacing around the spoon. “It’s… a lot.”

“Nope,” Andrew says, though it’s a closer call than he wants to admit. “Keep trying.”

“Here,” Neil says, grabbing a fresh spoon and scooping up some of Joy’s latest creation, wasabi and peanut butter. “You owe me one.”

He holds it out. Andrew looks at the bright, poisonous green colour and presses his lips together on a “no,” flattening it before it can take shape. Neil raises an eyebrow expectantly, still holding the spoon.

Slowly, Andrew bends down to it and wraps his mouth around it, popping off with a wet sound.

Actually, it’s not as bad as he expected.

“Not the worst,” he declares, wiping an errant drop off the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“What was the worst?” Neil asks. “Just out of curiosity.”

“You haven’t even guessed my favourite yet,” Andrew points out. “Stop slacking off and get back to work.”

Neil makes a point of looking around at the shining clean surfaces, the refills in the humming ice-cream counter, the neatly stacked cones and cups. It’s the dead hour just before the post-lunch rush and the sky is curled in a cloudy frown, the air tangy with the promise of rain. They might not be as busy today as they’ve been for the last week and Andrew wants to stare at the walls in peace, not babysit a restless bunny boy in a soft blue Henley with the sleeves rucked up.

He’s noticed, of course. The girls that come to the shop now to giggle and flirt are hardly subtle. He can see why Joy picked him; there’s been a slight uptick in sales since Neil started working here. Neil himself seems to either not notice or care, and while he’s more willing to plaster on a smile for the customers than Andrew, it usually starts to waver over the course of the afternoon like a muscle growing tired.

“Make some more whipped cream,” Andrew tells him, even though there’s probably enough left for a slow afternoon. Neil rolls his eyes.

“You’re not my boss, you know,” he says, but he goes into the kitchen without further prodding.

A few people duck in before the rain starts, then their shop becomes a dead zone in the downpour. The world outside looks green and blurred, far away. Raindrops hiss on the pavement like angry cats, swiping at passing ankles as they rush to the nearest sheltered spot. Neil finds something blissfully quiet to occupy him in the kitchen and Andrew toys with the idea of getting his paperback from his jacket pocket. Going to get it is effort he’s not sure he wants to invest, but it doesn’t look like the sort of rain that will wash away in a matter of minutes.

He has to pass through the kitchen to get to the back room.

The kitchen, where Neil is crouched on the floor in the corner with the darkness, holding out a hand and making a soft, kissy sound like he’s trying to attract a skittish cat. One of the Things has climbed on his back, hanging off his neck like a little monkey made out of grey fluff and soot; another is clinging to his leg.

“What,” Andrew says.

Neil startles, and the Things disperse. The darkness remains, but it looks bunched up and layered more deeply into the corner now than it did a moment ago.

“I,” Neil says, blinking rapidly, “I dropped something.”

Andrew lets his eyes slide deliberately over the darkness. Neil follows his gaze.

“You can see it too?” he asks very, very quietly.

Very, very slowly, Andrew nods.

There’s a little hiss of air as Neil inhales sharply, sucking air in through his teeth. Then he gets up, walks over to the sink and picks up the discarded top of a strawberry, tossing it at the darkness in the corner.

It ripples, then the strawberry top disappears with a tiny, gurgling noise, like it was absorbed into the wall.

“So we have a sentient compost heap,” Andrew says. Neil almost smiles.

“I think it’s just lonely,” he says.

“You think,” Andrew snorts.

“Yeah. I had one in my bedroom once. Every time I had a nightmare, it grew up the wall like ivy on steroids.”

Andrew files the information that Neil has nightmares away for later.

“How did you get rid of it?”

“I didn’t,” Neil says. “We moved away.”

He scrounges around for some more scraps to toss at the darkness. Everything gets gobbled up—a mouldy blueberry, a cheese rind from Joy’s latest ill-advised experiment, an entire banana peel.

“Other people don’t usually see them,” Andrew says slowly, tucking all the frayed ends of the question in tight.

Somehow, Neil still seems to hear them anyway.

“They’re not hallucinations,” he says. “They’re real. Just… not as real.”

One of the Things sticks its snout—beak?—out from underneath a cupboard and Neil coaxes it out, letting it climb into his hollowed-out palm. Andrew takes a step closer and reaches out his hand, and the Thing slip-slides over, coiling around his arm like a wristguard. It feels more like warm air than anything solid.

“Have you always been able to see them?” Neil asks. They’re standing so close, but Andrew’s skin isn’t crawling.

“Yes. You?”

“Yeah. I used to think that you can only see them if…” Neil trails off.

“What?”

“If you have a darkness inside you, too,” Neil finishes, prodding the thing around Andrew’s wrist until it clambers back over to him, up his arm and over his shoulder, hanging down over his chest. Now that Andrew is looking, he can see the topmost edge of a red scar disappearing under Neil’s collar where the Thing is pooled on top of the fabric.

“Should we,” Neil says, gesturing loosely at the door to the shop.

“There’s no one there,” Andrew says.

“Someone might come in.”

“That’s what the bell is for.”

Neil is so close Andrew can see tiny speckles of copper in his eyes, like flecks of rust. He still smells like vanilla from a morning spent splitting vanilla beans and scraping out the seeds. Andrew breathes him in and looks at his mouth and thinks about splitting him open and scraping out his sweet, soft insides.

“You look like you can’t decide between kissing and killing me,” Neil whispers.

“Maybe I can’t,” Andrew murmurs back, a thrill rolling down his spine like a single, fat raindrop.

“Well, milk up your mind,” Neil huffs, mouth twitching like a butterfly, and Andrew leans in and pins it down.

-

With Joy’s blessing they close up early and walk home along rain-deafened streets. The wetness soaks through Andrew’s black rainbow Chucks, a welcome-to-Germany present from Nicky that Andrew surprisingly did not hate. They stop for kebabs because Neil’s stomach is growling and he stubbornly insists that ice-cream is not a proper dinner, and end up on a damp park bench by the river, looking out at the sun setting behind the construction site across the water.

They eat their food. They talk. They kiss.

Andrew’s ass is wet and his mouth is tingling by the time they get up and he doesn’t know if the latter is from all the kissing or the chilli sauce Neil ordered. Neil tangles their fingers together as they walk and Andrew doesn’t pull away, just lets himself be led like a docile animal to where Neil lives.

“Do you want to come up?” Neil asks as they hover by the door, the wind rushing through the trees planted along the street. The night air is cool and metallic and Andrew can feel goosebumps traipsing along his arms despite the protection of his leather jacket.

“Okay,” he says.

The light from the lamp above the door spills over Neil, thick and golden against the blue-purple bruise of the night around them.

“Okay,” Neil repeats, fumbling for his keys.

He unlocks the door and leads them into a cramped staircase. The floor is covered in a worn, once-red rug, muffling their steps. Neil takes the stairs rather than the clanky old elevator, going up and up and up until Andrew is almost out of breath, and then down a dim corridor to his apartment.

The house is silent, but Andrew can hear the small, stifled sounds of life scurrying in the floorboards and the walls all around him. The anonymity of apartment buildings folds them into its cloak as Neil unlocks his door, turns on the light and lets him inside.

“It’s not much,” he says apologetically. “I just moved in.”

There’s only the one room, but it’s pretty spacious as one-bedroom apartments go. A kitchen is tucked at one end, looking out over the courtyard below, the windows opposite a sparse patchwork of light and dark. Most of the space is occupied by a bunk bed with a desk shoved underneath, a ratty old sofa that looks like it was rescued from the curb, and a large cat tree. From the very top, a pair of flinty eyes stares back at him, ears pricked in distaste.

“A cat,” Andrew says unnecessarily.

“She doesn’t like visitors,” Neil mutters. “Her name was supposed to be Wraith, but no one can pronounce it here, so she’s Raisin for now.”

“You should get another and call it Rum.”

“Is that a challenge?” Neil says with a glint in his eyes.

“Do you have coffee?” Andrew asks.

“Probably,” Neil muses, gesturing at the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

He flops down on the sofa with a groan, stretching his arms above his head. His socks are mismatched—one stripey green, one solid grey. The knees of his dark grey jeans are ripped and threadbare and Andrew has the sudden urge to touch the soft, frayed edges, stick his fingers in and widen the gaps.

“You are the worst host,” Andrew tells him. He stops by the door to toe out of his shoes and checks the sad contents of Neil’s cupboards for coffee, but all he comes up with is a jar of the cheapest, most revolting instant coffee granules that Andrew has ever seen.

“This,” he tells Neil, holding up the jar, “is an abomination and should be outlawed.”

Neil makes a vaguely agreeing sound. Andrew continues to paw through the kitchen and finds a few boxes of Lord Nelson tea, another testimony to Neil’s terrible taste, and an unopened bag of Ovomaltine.

“That will do,” he hums, hunting for a mug and a spoon. He dumps an obscene amount of Ovomaltine mix into the mug and finds himself at a loss how to warm up the milk without a microwave.

“Neil,” he calls. “Where is your microwave?”

There’s no answer. When he turns around, Neil has fallen asleep on the sofa, arms folded over his stomach, one leg drooping onto the floor.

Raisin the wraith cat seems to have left her perch on the cat tree. It takes Andrew a good long moment to discover that she’s sitting smugly by his feet, watching him with beady yellow eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, taking a step back. Raisin tucks her feet underneath her and hunkers down. She’s so small she doesn’t even make a proper loaf shape, looking more like a fat, misshapen spider with ears.

She’d fit right in with the Things. Andrew looks down at his mug and the milk in his hand; he’d need to turn his back on the damn cat to find a pot and warm it on the stove.

Fuck it. He’ll drink it cold, clumps and all.

Neil stirs when Andrew sits on the floor by the couch, vigorously stirring his drink. He watches Andrew out of squinty, tired eyes, then sits up and slides off the sofa until he’s sitting on the floor too, their legs bumping against each other.

He nudges Andrew’s knee experimentally and looks up.

“Joy told me you don’t like to be touched,” he says, tilting his head like he’s trying to figure something out.

“I don’t,” Andrew says, slurping cold, clumpy Ovomaltine from his spoon.

Neil slowly unfolds his leg and presses his foot to Andrew’s.

“Then why are you letting me do that,” he says.

Andrew shrugs. Neil raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Because you don’t expect anything else.”

Neil is quiet for a moment, looking at their feet where they’re still lined up. Neil’s are longer where Andrew’s are broader, the sock-covered shape of his toes skinny and crooked where Andrew’s are straight and squat.

“Just for the record, though,” Andrew says into the dropped stitches of the conversation, “I would blow you if you asked.”

The tension goes out of Neil’s frame and he hunches over, shaking a little with silent, loose-limbed laughter.

“Really? That’s your pick-up line?”

“Do you have a better one?” Andrew asks and regrets it immediately. “Don’t,” he says, right as Neil opens his mouth.

“Sure you don’t want to hear about how you make melt?” Neil grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Or how I want to spoon you? I could whip out the one about the banana split and the cherry, but it’s kinda raunchy.”

He pops his chin in his hand, still with that crooked, glazed cherry grin on his face, and Andrew puts his mug down and scoots into his space to pull him into another kiss. Neil laughs into it, then moans when Andrew deepens the kiss and pulls at the curls on the back of his neck.

“So are you,” Andrew murmurs, drawing away and nipping at his bottom lip, “asking?”

Neil looks at him, and Andrew discovers even more colours dotted around his irises; a rainbow sprinkle swirl only visible when the light hits them just right.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding wondrous. “Guess I am.”

Andrew kisses him again, then lays him out on the faded Oriental rug, pushing cat toys out of the way as they go down. Neil’s shorts come off easily, though he stops Andrew from taking off his shirt, too. Andrew plops a kiss to the silky skin of Neil’s hip, then another one to the tip of his dick, suckling at the sticky smudge of pre-come there.

“Oh,” Neil says, and, “ah,” when Andrew swallows him down.

Deep-throating is something Andrew prides himself on. Neil must not be used to it, or maybe he’s just one of those guys who don’t last long, because he pulls Andrew off just as Andrew is getting into it, tugging him up and into a kiss while Andrew rolls his hips against Neil’s in a lazy, erratic mimicry of fucking, and then things get a little hazy and they’re both coming and kissing and rubbing up against each other like it’s that easy.

And it is. Just for one, perfect, shining moment that’s all it is—easy, and comfortable, and right.

“Hey,” Neil mumbles, smooshed carefully against Andrew’s cheek. “Did you hear about the fruit getting a divorce? They banana split.”

“I hate you,” Andrew says.

“No, I think you find me very a-peeling,” Neil sighs, nuzzling into his neck until Andrew pulls his head back by the hair.

“Stop that.”

“Fine.” Neil pouts, still looking at Andrew’s neck. “You smell so nice, though.”

“Good to know a simple blowjob fries your brain-to-mouth filter. Oh wait, you never had one to begin with. Is it a birth defect?”

“It’s heredidairy,” Neil answers very seriously.

Andrew makes a frustrated noise and shuts him up the only way he knows how.

-

There is a darkness in the corner of Afterspoon’s kitchen.

Neil feeds it scraps from their newest ice-cream experiment and brings cat toys from home to try and tempt it out of its corner. Some days it’s bigger, splayed out and angry, and Renee takes the knives over to her side of the work station. Some days it’s small, curled up and content, napping in a splotch of sunlight from the window.

What Andrew calls the Things, Neil has affectionately dubbed the Soot Sprites, after a lazy afternoon spent watching My Neighbour Totoro and making out on Neil’s couch. They tend to flock to Neil and follow him around the shop like ducklings, getting in the way and making a general nuisance of themselves. Andrew refuses to help.

“I see you’ve made your decision,” Renee says, watching Andrew watch Neil from their spot on the picnic blanket. Sunlight ripples across her hijab and dapples her bare feet. Neil is on his tenth lap of the park, feet pounding the path in a steady drum, looking sweaty and glorious and carefree.

“Maybe so,” Andrew says, stealing Renee’s sunglasses off her nose.

“Careful, habibi,” she tells him. “I might bite.”

“And yet you didn’t,” he says, siding the sunglasses on but scooting out of biting range just the same.

The summer is drawing to a close. There’s a chill in the ground, a simmered quality to the light; Joy has started selling flavours like plum and gingerbread rice pudding, sweet potato with maple walnut and bacon, apple with blackberry and ginger. Andrew will have to decide what to do with the remains of the year soon, because he can’t live in Nicky and Erik’s garden house forever.

But not just yet.

For now, he is still selling ice-cream and watching over the things that live in the shop when no one is looking. He is carving out space for himself amid the darkness in the corners. Neil still hasn’t guessed his favourite ice-cream flavour, and Andrew still hasn’t heard the raunchy pick-up line about banana splits and cherries.

There’s still time to work out the rest, and plenty of ice-cream to be eaten before the summer ends.


End file.
